


Television

by Borgesia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, America, Arthur Kirkland - Freeform, Domestic, Domesticity, England - Freeform, Fluff, Hetalia, M/M, USUK - Freeform, alfred jones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borgesia/pseuds/Borgesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred is an adventurous and feisty guy who chose to settle down with Arthur. Arthur is a man who loved the countryside and preferred books, a good conversation and a quiet life. They learn to live with each other despite their differences. Alfred learns to curb down his television habit. Arthur learns to open up himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Television

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmpressVegah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressVegah/gifts).



> Hi! This is actually my first fan-fiction, and I'm admittedly not very much of an expert on the APH character's canon habits and mannerisms, so I apologize if I made a mistake. I'm also not a native English speaker, so I hope you can forgive me for making any grammatical errors in this work. This fanfic was made as a gift for my friend who has devoted herself to this pairing for 4 (?) years now.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Expect more works coming soon.

He sat on the reclining chair outside his lawn.

He could feel the presence of the cool darkling breeze, the hum of the nearby forest, the life. It was growing, it was coming out from sleep. And yet the sun had already set, casting a great shadow from the peaks of clouds to the east, as it seared the sky into a mellow tune of yellow and deathly orange.

He heard the whistling of the kettle from the kitchen door. Ah, he thought, now it’s time for my tea. He pushed his hand against the arm of the chair and lifted himself, walking towards the house, through the door.

“Tea again?” said Alfred.

Arthur looked towards the living room and saw him there with an inquiring look, his shape against the muted images of the television in the background. Arthur did not want to be bothered. He will have tea whenever he pleased.

“You shouldn’t be watching too much television,” Arthur said. “You already have bad enough vision as it is, I don’t think you should be spoiling yourself.”  
Alfred shrugged off his shoulders and laughed, “No such thing as too much television.”

He heard the kitchen door creak. A tap and a tick to the switch of the stove. The sound of moving pans. The whistling of the kettle died down. Arthur didn’t enter the kitchen. He walked towards the living room. Alfred turned around and smiled, “Sit down with me.”

He sat down on the sofa facing the television next to Alfred.

“What happened to tea?” he asked.

“I didn’t feel like it anymore.”

“And why?”

“Tired.”

“Ah,” said Alfred with a smile, “Always tired at the most inconvenient of times.”

“Hush, will you?”

Arthur lifted his feet on an ottoman and huddled closer towards Alfred, feeling the side of his arms, his warmth against his own. How long has it been since they were together? He couldn’t exactly remember. Moments like these reminded Arthur of the little annoyances that he’s had to deal with living with him. Like how he always leaves the television on. Or how sometimes he doesn’t use a coaster when drinking his cup of coffee, and little coffee stains would imprint on the magazines, or when he doesn’t do the dishes when he’s supposed to be. And at times like these, what annoyed Arthur most of all was when he was trying to bear himself away, to undo his guard and open up to moments of tenderness, Alfred was always oblivious to the signs all around him.

“Alfred,” he said. “Put your arms around me already.”

“Sorry,” said Alfred as he stared off into the muted screen of the television. He reached over the back of the sofa and pressed Arthur under his arms towards himself. “That alright?”

“Yes,” he said, blushing and feeling a pulsating warmth rise inside him. This was enough, Arthur thought, if we could just both be quiet and stay like this forever.

Sometimes he even forgot that they were in a relationship, or that they were in love. Sometimes Alfred was just Alfred, a person living with him. Sometimes he was flying there with his spirit, a spark of flame living amidst the eaves underneath their roof. His zest was unquenchable, and so his enthusiasm over the smallest matters grated Arthur. His undying hunger for an adventure in life was almost always an issue that they both argued over. So how come he chose to settle down for a quiet life with him?

He sometimes forgot that they were in love, but knowing that Alfred chose to live the quiet life with him, and that every failing moment of frustration would erase itself when they held each other in silence, he remembered it all over again. The first time they met, the first time they got introduced to each other at a dance, the first time Alfred invited him over to his house, the first time they went hiking, the first time Arthur stared deep into his eyes for a long time, and how he never even flinched.

He remembered what people said about them; how it was unusual that two guys who were young were so inseparable and at the same time, were always on at each other about the most meagre of things, and yet, the next day, months, years, they were still the best of friends. They were still together.

Arthur would never forget how Alfred first held his hand late one night, as they walked out of a club, treading lightly under an English sky that was clear and full. It was a maiden night that he could not get rid of from his mind, as he happily hummed the words of a starry sky, singing in the full bloom of an autumn weather.

“How can one be so alone, and yet be so loved?” Arthur said.

Alfred stopped dead in his tracks and held Arthur’s hands tighter. He laughed out loud and held Arthur’s other hand with his. “You say the weirdest things.”

“You’re pretty strange yourself,” he replied, flustered. “Honestly, sometimes you have the strangest ideas about things, and you always think you’re right, and-“  
Alfred was staring intently into his own eyes.

Arthur looked down towards his shoes, but the grip on his right hand loosened and as he looked up again, he felt the gentle touch of Alfred’s fingers on his chin, spreading slowly towards his left cheek as their gaze met.

“You’re weird, Arthur, but I like that. I like you.”

The gentle hold became firm as Alfred closed in and pressed his warm lips towards his; humid and moist against the cold of the night. Arthur reciprocated, slowly wrapping his trembling arms around the back of Alfred’s neck.

He remembered it all, these lasting moments which engraved themselves upon the heart of the soul. It all came crashing and flooding back into him, when in these moments where he forgot, where he thought that they might have gone stale and dead for being so used to each other’s petty little differences. Just sitting there with him made Arthur remember it all.

This was enough, he thought, if we could just both be quiet and stay like this forever.

Arthur leaned in closer and wrapped his hand around Alfred, staring at a comfortable angle at the television, as it chattered away in low muffled sounds.

“Say, why do we always watch the television on low volume?” asked Arthur. “I’ve gotten used to it, but now that I think about it, it seems strange that you never turn it up.”  
“Well, that’s… back when we were starting out you tended to talk a lot, and –”

Arthur frowned and raised an eyebrow. “Says you.”

Alfred laughed again and scratched Arthur’s brows, trying to smoothen out the frown on his face. “Let me finish first.”

“Stop that.”

“Sorry,” said Alfred, kissing his forehead. “But hear me out.”

He straightened his back and held Arthur in a more comfortable position. “Back when we started going out, we always came back to my place, right? And we would always go late into the night.”

“I remember.”

“Well, to be honest I wanted to watch television shows too. And it’s either you’re reading a book, or you’re always talking away about the grievances you have with your former friends and your brothers. And it’s not that I didn’t want to be with you or hear you talk about them, or anything. I did. I guess it was just a bad habit I picked up from spending way too much time in front of the television.”

“And I hated it, you know. You think I didn’t notice? When I was trying to tell you about my day, or about what happened at work, I caught you glancing at the stupid telly.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. But I did compromise. I knew how important it was for you to tell me these things, but I couldn’t shake off the television. And I felt guilty. But I wanted to listen to you, I wanted to devote not just my day but my nights to you as well, so I turned down the volume.”

“I thought it was weird the first time you did it. You were just sitting on your sofa, and you would look at me and talk, and listen, but the television was always on and turned down. I thought you were just being polite to the neighbours.”

He laughed. “My brother thought so too, and said I was finally behaving and being more considerate about the noise I make at home. But really, I just wanted to listen to you talk about things. The more you talked, the less I needed to watch the movies and shows that were on television. At work, or with somebody else I’m the one who’s always talking. But with you, I just wanted to sit down quietly and hear your voice.”

Arthur smiled and held him tighter. “Thank you.”

He laid still for a moment, looking at the screen and seeing the blurring images dance in his field of vision. But he wasn’t paying attention to the colours as much as he was to the feel of his hands, his face, and his chest against Alfred’s body.

“Why me?” Arthur suddenly blurted out.

“What why?”

“I mean, I’m sure you could have had anybody who was better than I am.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true. I’ve always felt like a loser. Everybody left me, and I’m always hated by a lot of people. But… you chose me, anyway.”

“No,” said Alfred. “We chose each other.”

“But why? Why me?”

Alfred stopped looking at the screen and looked out through the open window. The night had comfortably settled in, and the stars rose out of the horizon as the air cooled down with gentle breezes, sifting in through the curtains towards them. He thought hard and was silent for a moment.

“It’s because out of all the people you understood me the most. You knew better than everyone what it feels like to be alone. You stood your ground, you held up and I always admired you for it. And I was lonely, and I was desperate to find somebody who understood.”

“Ah –“

“And you chose me. I never knew why, but you did and I was happy.”

The song of the night had grown a little. Harmonies from the living forests nearby the house had started to spread into the black. There a hoot from an owl by the barn across the meadow, there a neigh from the night horse, and somewhere down from the hedgerows, a dog was barking at the rising moon. Only their house remained quiet in the countryside as it stared into the dark expanse of the universe.

“We’re still quite alone aren’t we?” said Arthur, holding Alfred closer to him.

“We are alone,” he replied. “But we’re not lonely.”

He grazed his hand through Arthur’s hair and kissed his forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He held on tighter and heard his heart beat through his shirt, through his chest. He held on gently until his eyes started closing on their own accord. He was tired, he was falling asleep, but being held in his arms made him feel like they were in the limelight of their prime. And he couldn’t care less about the muted television or tea.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
What was that? An alien sound. Synth? It was a beep that kept repeating itself until it stopped. Arthur slowly opened his eyes and he was regaining control of his senses.

“Yes, as I was saying, Folgers & Smith will need that money wired in by eleven thirty.”

Noise.

“Also move my schedule for that merger meeting with Herscht next week Monday to Tuesday. Tell Samuel that I have to take that day off. He’ll understand.”The clattering of metal against ceramic surface. Somebody talking alone. On the telephone? No. Was it Alfred? It wasn’t him. There was a curt tone in this voice. This voice was commanding and hard. It was the voice of a woman.

“Joanna, can you transfer my call to my husband? Thank you.”

His upper body was covered in a warm brown cloth. He was clutching on it the whole time. Light was seeping into the room from the east, hitting the framed pictures of faded black and white. That can’t be right. He moved around and saw that Alfred was not next to him. The clock on the wall was pointing towards eight and thirty three. It was morning now. Somebody was in the kitchen.

“Honey? Yes. No, I’m not at work. Yes, I’m here. Oh, no. The nurse requested a day off so I took one too and came here. I’m sorry, I couldn’t just leave him. And the poor nurse has been here all month, she must have been bored out of her skull. I was about to give you a call last night but I forgot.”

At this state he remembered that he should be alarmed. Why was she inside the house? How did she get in? Ah, he thought, it must have been through the open door from the yard. She must have gotten through that. Wait, that’s not right. Why would she do that? And where is Alfred? Where am I?

“Alfred,” he said, whimpering. His voice was coarse, though he couldn’t remember why. He tried reaching out his hand but the flesh in him was weak, and the will in him to move from the very spot was burned out. Dust. Ashes. Don’t move me, he thought, I want stay where I am right now. Where is Alfred?

The noise in the kitchen stopped. “He’s woken up, I’ll call you later. Yes. The little darling slept in dad’s old jacket. No. The other dad.”

A steady and rhythmic footstep on the floor was approaching him. He couldn’t get up. He didn’t want to.

The woman stepped in front of him. From behind her he could see that the television was still on and muted. She was a stranger, and yet he was unafraid. There was a familiar touch to her face, as if long ago he’s held her in his arms and kissed her and calmed her down when she was crying. Alfred forgot to turn off the television again, he thought.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice melting into a comfortable warmth that was so different from moments ago.

“Who are you?” he asked. He could see an ache spread through her face, but she was holding it back in. She forced a smile as she reached out and adjusted the cloth that was on him, then walked towards the silent television and turned it off.

“Keep yourself warm for a while and I’ll make us a full English breakfast.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, watching her slowly walk away and back towards the kitchen door. “Where’s Alfred?”

She looked back at him, her eyes staring down into his, a genuine laughter coming out of her. What was so funny? What was so remarkable about it?

“You never change, dad.”

Dad? Why would she call him that? Who was she?

“Where’s Alfred?”

“We’re going to see him today, so don’t worry. I have the weekend and Monday off, dad. Let’s have breakfast first.”

He laid his head back down and looked at the ceiling. The colour’s faded. Alfred forgot to call the real estate services again. He’s told him to do it many times, but the daft cow just won’t listen to anything he has to say. He laid still for a moment and held the cloth closer to him. It smelled of aged leather. He looked at it and found a curious pattern of red, blue and white on the inner back part of the cloth. It was a jacket.

The kitchen was clattering. Life was slowly brimming, and from the door the noise and smell of a good morning’s breakfast reached Arthur. She came out of the kitchen door and gave him a stick.

“Here, lean on it,” she said, taking the jacket away from him and helping him get up. “You’ll need to walk today too, dad. Can you do it?”

“Of course, I can.”

The pain was hindering him, his back was suffering. I must not have slept in the right position last night, he thought. She held his arm gently and helped him through the kitchen door where the morning hue was calm, and the open window looking towards the garden was letting in cool air. They sat down and ate breakfast. The full English meal made him remember childhood. His, and hers. Hers? What? Who was she? Why is she in this house? Was this his house?

She helped him get through the morning, she was a gentle woman. She had the skin of glowing olive, hair like ebony and eyes like tropical sea. The eyes… it reminded him of Alfred. Where was Alfred? More importantly, he thought, where was she taking me? What’s that?

“Get in the front seat, dad.”

He got in obediently and she closed the door on him. He heard a door open from the back, the sound of things being put in. She got in from the other side and took out some device from her pocket and pressed some buttons on a flat glowing surface that changed colours. A small television? It can’t be. She was pressing it against her face. She’s talking to it. A telephone? A spy’s device? Who was she?

“Honey,” she said to the device. “There’s food in the fridge in the green tupperwear. Microwave it at 180 for 10 minutes. Your dad’s is in the blue one. Heat it as well. I love you. Call you later.”

She pressed in a key underneath a wheel and the thing hummed. She pressed her feet down and pulled a stick that was prodding out in between them. The thing moved backwards. She pushed the stick and shifted her feet, and the thing twisted towards the country road and slowly went straight ahead, now slow, now fast, now blurring the images of the green into the past. He looked out and concentrated on the patches gliding gently on a fern hill.

“Nervous?”

“No,” he replied. “Why should I be?”

“Oh,” she said with a smile in her voice. “I heard you calling out his name this morning, you know.”

“It’s alright, Alfred and I had a fight before he went into the war but it’s over now.”

What was I talking about? He thought. That’s right… there was a war. And they were needed. And they had a fight. I shouldn’t go, said Arthur, we had a daughter to take care of. I must go, said Alfred, because there were other people who needed my help. And there was a long stretch of silence after…

“Dad?” she said, startled. “You’ve been staring off for a few minutes, are you alright?”

He looked at her again, her gentle face in a state of worry.

“I’m perfectly fine, Pam,” he said. “We will look for Alfred and I’ll apologize and he’ll apologize and we’ll eat lunch together.”

“You remembered my name.”

“Of course, Pam. Now, where is Alfred?”

She smiled and pressed something on the device she used or talked to moments ago. Jazz was blasting all over and he didn’t know where it was coming from.

Each note made him forget where he was; each trill, each sensual and melancholic turn. And it made him remember. The gentle dance turned playful, the light shifting from red to mood indigo, the pace slowing down, Alfred’s gentle but strong hands on his back pressing himself closer… Hand holding hand, the first kiss. It came crashing back to him and the rush of the moment startled a sense of fear within. He looked at his arm, his skin. He was old. There was no more youth in them. Decay and time had taken its toll, and though for a moment he was in his golden days, time held him crying, and time had set lose the effect of mortality upon his mind, upon his flesh and bones.

He was dreading everything that was coming. But the music she was humming to, it calmed him down. I will see Alfred today, he thought. I will apologize before it’s too late. Where is Alfred?

They curved in and made a turn towards a white gate. A sea of white stones in perfect symmetry revealed itself before them, as they rolled down and up towards a spot near a tree. She pressed her feet down and twisted the key under the wheel and the thing died down its humming. She opened her door and took out things from the back and ran towards a spot near one of the white stones. She opened a blanket and placed it on the ground and left a basket on it.

“Dad,” she said, “get out of the car.”

He tried desperately to tug on the handle inside but she had to help him get out.

“Here, wear this.” She laid out the jacket on his shoulders. “That should keep you warm.”

He held on to the jacket and leaned on the stick as he walked. The morning was calm. Birds from a faraway nest were peeping from the spot and singing some happy melody. This was a nice place. It was something that reminded him of his own disposition for solitude.

“Dad,” she said, helping him sit down on the blanket. “Daddy Fred’s here.”

She got up and took out flowers from the basket and laid it next to a stone. She dusted off the stone and was silent for a moment. What was she doing? Where were they?

“Daddy,” she said, talking towards the stone with a smile on her face. “We’re here, and he still talks about you.”

“Pamela,” Arthur said. “Where’s your father? I need to apologize and tell him I love him.”

Her was face was calm. “Dad, I’ll need to make a call. In the meantime, you can talk to Daddy Fred alone.”

He didn’t understand. He looked at the white stone and stared for a moment. Where was Alfred? The stones had numbers on them. Letters. Words claiming service and honour. A dove was engraved near the top, there was a cross, and just below it was written out, “Alfred F. Jones”.

And he remembered. They had a fight… and he was anxious to tell him that he was sorry and he loved him when he got back from the war but he never did. He never returned. Not in the way Arthur wanted him to.

He looked at this arm again. His skin was old. And this stone had been set there in that spot for a long time. Tears were running down his cheeks. He didn’t know why. Was it too late?

“Alfred, I’m sorry.” His frail hands were trailing the edges of the engraved name. “I love you.”

There was nothing left to say. He reached out from his spot towards the stone, the warmth of Alfred’s bomber jacket was protecting him from the chill of the unholy wind. The sound of the birds had died away, the sky was growing restless and dark. He remained on his spot on the blanket and sat down for a while, hearing the sound of Pam’s silent cry behind him.

He heard her walk towards the trees where they stopped until he could hear her no more. He was alone again, and yet, as Alfred had told him many times, he was not lonely. They were not lonely. And the smile on his face was a proof of this.

Where was Alfred? What a silly question. He was with him the whole time, he thought, and forgiveness and love, these were not meant to be said out loud but appreciated. Isn’t that right, Alfred?

He looked at the markings on the stone and finally remembered and understood how the days, how the months and the years had gone so fast. How he had let himself live all alone in the country after Pamela went off to college. How he didn’t need anyone else after him.

Pam was standing beneath the tree looking at her own father. She turned off her phone and stood looking at him, wiping away the tears from her face. There was serenity all about the old man. Silence and nature was always his friend. For a moment, she thought she saw Alfred beside Arthur, and they were both sitting quietly. And though the moment of illusion went by so fast in the blink of an eye, she could have sworn that the moment would last forever.


End file.
